On This Cold December Night
by BookRookie12
Summary: This year, someone new is joining Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness (2018)! And yes, that's yours truly. Holmes and Watson are in for one weird Christmas season and I will go down fighting. Will label slash chapters as such, just in case.
1. Winter Wordplay

**Hey there, wolflings! This year, as said, I'm participating in HLOD's December Challenge! I hope I won't mess it up too badly, considering. Well, here goes nothing. (Title is from Michael Buble's _Cold December Night_.)**

 **Today's prompt: A trail gone cold.**

 **From: KnightFury**

* * *

I was absolutely amazed.

In the few hours since we had gone inside to await developments, Baker Street had become enveloped in snow. The flakes still falling provided a softening touch to the harsh greyish landscape of buildings and black-coated pedestrians. White blanketed everything, obscuring the smoky haze from the factories and clearing up the air to a degree. It was an aspect of winter that I thoroughly enjoyed, and this was one of the first snows of the season.

"Damn!" I heard from behind me. My tall, lean friend came to the window and gazed out at the falling snow with sharp grey eyes that held the slightest suggestion of annoyance. "Come, Watson! Soon the snow will have covered all traces!"

Smiling, I grabbed my coat and followed him down the seventeen steps to Scotland Yard, where he roughly updated Lestrade and left, me in tow, to hunt the latest trespasser.

After about half an hour of fruitlessness, I could not resist a comment: "It seems the trail has gone _cold_ , has it not?"

"I have no desire for winter wordplay now, Watson," he warned, but I was too tired and too whimsical to pay him any mind.

"You might say we have _snow_ leads!" I grinned.

"Yes we do!" he groaned, trying his best to ignore me.

"The criminal seems a bit… _flaky_ to me," I remarked cheekily, upon observing the landing of a snowflake upon Holmes's hat. After another pause, I chimed in again cheerfully: "Our progress has been _glacial_ , has it not, Holmes?"

"At _frost_ glance, the traces have truly been lost."

"I suppose there's _snow_ way out?"

At last, he exploded. "Enough puns! I am trying to concentrate, and you have no business to be standing there making winter wisecracks while I do all the work!"

I blinked innocently. "How _Rudolph_ you to say that, Holmes!" I replied, trying in vain to keep my smirk off my face. "For your information, there are footprints in the direction I'm facing at the moment; feel free to follow them at your leisure."

"Why did you not mention this?" my flatmate demanded, even as he stormed off in search of the clues I had no doubt pointed him to. His flushed face and grey eyes only turned for a second in my direction.

I smiled at him. "I thought you would _snow-tice_ them yourself!"


	2. Mrs Hudson's Teapot

**Might be a bit OOC, but I couldn't resist. I was listening to Pentatonix's _Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays_ while writing this, so can you forgive me for being a little mischievous? **

**Today's prompt: a scene including Mrs. Hudson and a missing teapot**

 **From: mrspencil**

 **Hope you all enjoy! I haven't read the reviews you've left for the last one yet, so I'm crossing my fingers! :) December cheer to you all from Alex~**

* * *

"How now!" cried Holmes as he opened the door, with Watson following close behind. "What's the matter, Wiggins?"

The London urchin was the picture of contrition, his shabby cap tugged low over his dirty face, and his tattered scarf drooping as if its little owner had lent it some of his apologetic mood. "Sorry again, Mrs. Hudson."

Our kindly landlady clucked in protest. "Now, now, I'm sure none of you meant to lose it – oh, it's you, Mr. Holmes, Doctor! It really is nothing; I simply sent some tea round with Wiggins for the Irregulars – with this weather, they must be freezing – but it seems they misplaced the teapot!"

Watson hung his hat and coat, frowning in contemplation. "The teapot?"

"Yes Doctor," answered Wiggins. "We got holt of all the teacups, but never the pot!"

"I've told you, boy, you meant no harm!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, swatting at his ear with her dishtowel. "Besides, it was one of those old sets; no harm meant, no harm done."

Meanwhile, the doctor and his detective had been talking quietly together, and presently Watson ducked out again, winding his scarf around his neck and shrugging his coat into place. Holmes took the tray of returned teacups from Mrs. Hudson and waited by the door with only a wink to the other occupants of the room.

Before any queries could be made or answered, the door opened once more, and the good doctor set the missing teapot on the tray his partner was holding up for him. It was empty, and on the whole rather the worse for its little adventure, but there it rested, proud and battered.

Wiggins gave a sound of disbelief as Holmes triumphantly handed the completed set off to Mrs. Hudson. "'Owever'd you find it, Doctor?"

Holmes's grey eyes twinkled outrageously. "It is rather hard," he observed, "to lose track of an object once it almost sprains your ankle."


	3. A Bit Less Festive - For a Moment

**Assuming that SH and JW meet in early 1881 and solve the _Study in Scarlet_ case later that same year, then go on to solve _The Adventure of the Speckled Band_ in 1883 (the latter of which is stated outright), this means that this short would take place shortly (get it?) after that, in the Christmas of '83. **

**Anyway, after the lightheartedness of the last two there's a little less in this one.**

 **Today's prompt: Holmes is feeling festive and Watson is not.**

 **From: KnightFury (my dear KnightFury, I've done two of your prompts in three days! It's been an honor)**

 **Hope you like it! ~Alex.**

* * *

It was one of the colder nights in December of 1883, and although the Christmas decorations were few and far between 221B Baker Street was warm and full of the creature comforts needed by two relatively young and robust bachelors and their landlady. The windows were shut against the cold, and both of said bachelors were enjoying the warmth of the larger fire in the sitting room.

Sherlock Holmes lay upon the sofa, his violin and bow dangling from the fingers of either hand, in between melodies as of the moment that we catch a glimpse of him: his grey eyes were sharp, but unseeing, currently contemplating something not of the visible world, and his dark hair, normally neatly combed back, was wild from his afternoon of turning about and was now tumbled about his face.

John Watson, on the other hand, leaned back in his armchair. One could not in good conscience call it reclining; there was too much of the soldier in him yet to _recline._ Chocolate-brown hair still close-cropped to his head – old habits die hard – and flinty dark eyes that had not yet lost their military determination had softened in that wistful manner which means one is thinking of the past. His stare was fixed on the fire, a ghost of anger lingering upon his brow.

Suddenly his companion leapt up, as if hot water had been thrown on him, and he began to play; a slow enough song for a winter's evening by a fire, but his fingers leapt over the strings joyfully. Holmes was clearly in a festive mood tonight.

Juxtaposed with him, the good doctor could be described as 'sombre'; a type of sombreness that spoke of trauma, fear, and loss. To anyone who had experienced a similar trauma he would have been easily recognisable; there was no one else who would have identified what kind of silent emotion flitted behind the calm-water surface of lake-like eyes.

It must be noted that although they had only met sometime two years ago, they had already been together on some cases, and lived in the same flat in any case, so it was not entirely unnatural for Holmes to notice his companion's sobriety even in his own contentment.

However, being the man that he was, Holmes felt both a powerful instinct to ask what help he could offer, and an equally powerful urge to stay silent.

For all he knew, Watson was merely tired, or something of that sort. He, Holmes, had little expertise in the matter, but what he _was_ an expert in, he used. And though he was not one to pry in others' affairs – which would make him a hypocrite – he felt as though he was needed, in some capacity.

"The war?" he asked, much more gently than he would have had it been any other situation but now, and any other person but this one.

Watson started. "Oh," he said, very tellingly.

Holmes laid his beloved instrument carefully down, and sat himself on the floor beside the chair. "I cannot begin to understand anything," said he. "However, though I might not act like it at times, you don't bother me, and you shan't, whatever you do. I suppose you must grieve somehow, and I will not begrudge you that."

Watson lay a hand upon the thin shoulder, and Holmes leaned his head against the arm of the chair. Neither was very sure what exactly the other was doing, but he was there, and at the moment, when there was no one else, that was all that mattered.

To Watson, for whom war and loss of everything was still too fresh for comfort, that was the world.


	4. Parlour Games

**Well... the only apology I have is that when I came home, I collapsed straight into bed and didn't wake up until this morning, when I had to go straight to school. So. Sorry! Have a 221B to make up for it! (I didn't intend for it to be a 221B, actually; it just... happened).**

 **I'm going to be late for a few days, but hopefully I'll catch up by the weekend!**

 **Today's prompt:** **Holmes, Watson, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson are snowed into 221B for the foreseeable future.**

 **From: Madam'zelleG**

* * *

"How, exactly, did we get to doing this again?" Sherlock huffed. He was perched on the arm of Watson's chair like a cat, his violinist's hands braced against the back.

"You had a bit too much brandy with supper, challenged your brother, and then begged our dear landlady and me to join in, that's how," Watson retorted from the sofa. His hair was dishevelled, but not much else was.

Since the snowdrifts had prevented the visiting Mycroft from leaving, Mrs. Hudson had brought them all up a nice warm supper, complete with the brandy Sherlock had indeed had too much of, and the detective had gotten a bit tipsy and promptly begun a game of… Watson was actually unsure of what exactly it was, but it was a variation of the boys' game Dare. One that meant nobody could touch the floor, because it was apparently on fire. Still, his insides were a fuzzy warm that was only partly because of the drinks he'd had.

Sherlock Holmes's eyes were sparkling with enjoyment; they should do that more often.

"Might we do something more sensible now, brother dear?" Mycroft asked delicately from the table, where he was struggling to stay balanced.

"You forget one thing, brother mine," replied Sherlock, grinning. "I'm still drunk. Now, whose turn is it to spin the bottle?"


	5. Oops

**Hey everyone! I'm falling behind a bit, but I think I should be able to catch up by tomorrow. This isn't a particularly creative response, and I included my own original characters. Just a sort-of spoiler: Wilde has some... unusual powers.**

 **Today's prompt (was supposed to be): First snowfall**

 **From: KnightFury (hello again!)**

 **Like I said, supposed to be about first snowfall, but... well, this came out instead.**

* * *

The first snow of December had settled in a sort of fluffy cloud blanket over Baker Street, dulling the heavy scents of smoky London and chilling the air to that delightful crispness that meant it was cold enough to feel the cosy warmth of a coat, hat, and scarf, but not cold enough to bite through them. The Baker Street Irregulars enjoyed even their flimsy, tattered clothing, unfit for sale and free for the quick fingers of the boys.

One such Irregular stood watch by one of Mr. Holmes's suspects. He was invisible by nature, with dusty mouse-fur hair that passed for any shade at all, and a young face that had not yet lost its childish roundness. His uncanny way of being able to conceal himself in any space, blend into any crowd, was the only reason he was an Irregular.

You see, young Thorn, as he was called by the other boys, was a middle-class boy from one of the suburbs of London. His brother was one of Dr. Watson's closer colleagues, which was how Thorn had become aware of the existence of one Sherlock Holmes.

His peculiar eyes, a strange shade of light sand that changed color based on whatever was in their proximity, lit up, and, transfixing his jack-knife into the hidden corner of the windowsill as a prearranged signal, he nipped off to Baker Street, taking care to enjoy the snow.

"Mr. Holmes!" he cried, upon seeing the detective out and about. "Plans for supper tonight, sir, he seems to be going out."

"Good boy, Hawthorne!" Holmes said joyfully. Thorn opened his mouth as if to cry out, but it was too late – a white ball of the new snow struck the tall detective in the shoulder and burst into ephemeral magnificence, dusting his greatcoat with spots of dark as the snowflakes melted against him.

Dr. Watson seemed to be repressing his urge to laugh at Mr. Holmes's dumbstruck face as another Irregular ran up in horror. This boy was a tall, rusty-headed ranger by the name of Wilde, and a properly homeless Irregular, though he was also Thorn's closest friend.

"Oh dear," he remarked rather dryly. "My apologies, Mr. Holmes. I meant to hit Thorn." And indeed, Holmes's shoulder was about the height Thorn's forehead would be at. Mr. Holmes only sighed at the antics of his scout, while Dr. Watson coughed a few times to hide the humour he found in the situation.

Wilde, however, studied the detective and the doctor more closely, his flame-like amber eyes burning in his pale face, until they widened and he turned away.

When he again met Holmes's eyes, one turned red and one white, both out of embarrassment. Wilde took Thorn's hand and bolted, unaware that behind him Holmes groaned and hid his face in his hands, sure that his pupil had been a little _too_ apt.


	6. Defeat at Last

**Hey everyone! So like I've said before, I'm lagging behind on the prompts, but I should be able to make ti up this weekend! Hopefully I don't take too much time. Enjoy this one, though!**

 **Today's prompt: A neverending feud**

 **From: Domina Temporis (interesting name, by the way, love it)**

* * *

The day looked to be one of those gloomy, dragging, irritating days in which nothing ever happened, or, if they did, were all frightfully annoying. Snow clouds blurred into the smoky haze over London, creating a fuzzy fog of uncomfortably chilly air that dampened the coat as soon as one got near a decent fire. The static atmosphere was not helped in the slightest, Dr. John Watson decided, by the fact that his flatmate had not organised his clutter in a while.

To make the situation even worse, Holmes's brilliant mind had lain all but dormant for three weeks – an eternity – and a bored Holmes was a volatile Holmes, whether it was Christmas season or not. The very fact that it was Christmas season made Watson more exasperated. Surely even Holmes could be more charitable at some regular time?

He tripped over Holmes's litter again and _again and **again**_ , and when the fourth time came, just about midmorning, the good doctor decided that enough was enough.

The door to Holmes's bedroom was shut as usual, but he rapped on it sharply, opened it a bit, and said, just as sharply, "If you don't start cleaning up what rubbish is lying around the sitting room at this very moment, anything paper is going in the fire and anything else in the bin."

When he opened it, all the way, a smile dawned on his face in spite of itself. There, in the middle of the immaculately organised room save for the bundle of papers with red tape half-on and half-off that lay in front of him, sat Holmes, sagging against the bedpost with his head thrown back on the mattress as if only for a moment.

In the middle of the night before, Watson remembered having a nightmare broken off by one of Holmes's performances, meaning that the detective had either had little sleep or none at all, and in the entire three weeks Watson knew his detective had been pushing the boundaries of sleep deprivation.

Knowing that taking the pile of paper to seal the red tape before it lost its strength would no doubt wake the light sleeper, Watson chose instead to close the door, glad that his friend's seemingly never-ending feud with rest and tidiness seemed to have reached a truce.


	7. A Cameo from the Rodent Residents

**Hey there! I didn't really know how to handle this prompt, and I watched _The Great Mouse Detective_ recently, so... yeah, this came out. **

**Today's prompt: Toby by the fire with the riding crop**

 **From: Stutley Constable**

 **Hope you all like this! ~Alex**

* * *

Holmes grinned a rare full smile as we bounded into the cab to return to Baker Street. "A most satisfying denouement, my dear Watson!" he remarked, as we rolled along. I smiled back at him, my blood still singing with the thrill of the chase. The crisp air of December tingled on my skin, pluming in my face when I exhaled.

When we reached our flat at last, I groaned and Holmes cried out in horror.

Chaos – that is, even more chaos than usual – reigned in 221B. Papers were scattered everywhere, my armchair was toppled over, and one of Holmes's precious experiments was in ruins on the table, beakers tipped on their sides and liquid spilled on the table. And there was a very familiar dog laying in front of the fire with a riding crop in his mouth.

"Toby!" Holmes whined. "You naughty dog, what on God's good earth have you done to the flat?"

I noticed some very familiar scurrying by the fireplace, and I hurried over, crouching by the crack I knew was there. "Basil?" I whispered, low enough that Holmes, amid his clattering on the table, would not hear. "Dawson? Are you there?"

My mouse colleague popped his head back out. "Most certainly, Watson," he replied, in just as low of a tone. "Awfully sorry about the disarray; Toby was tracking down a criminal of ours and got a bit overexcited."

"Ah," said I. "That's no trouble then. Is all well?"

He chuckled. "All is well, sir. I do hope Mr. Holmes doesn't mind the mess too much."

"I think not," I promised. I looked over my shoulder, where Holmes was angrily examining the shambles of his setup. "Well, let me calm him down for a day or two, or better yet, wait until he has a case again."

"Right, Watson!" said David Dawson with a wink, disappearing down the mouse-hole with incredible agility for someone with such an unwieldly build.

"Watson?" Holmes asked distractedly from where he was mopping up the spilled fluids. "What are you doing there?"

I rose and dusted off my hands. "Taking Toby back to Mr. Sherman. I shall only be a few minutes." At his answering 'hm', I bounded out with the dog, digging around in my pocket as I tripped on down the stairs. When I saw that there was still a beam of light from under the bush box, I reached down and poked my prize into it – a bit of cheese, nicked from Mrs. Hudson's stores.

"Come on then, Toby," said I, patting his lop-eared head. "Back home you go."


	8. Eternal - SLASH

**What can I say, I saw a few reincarnation fics on AO3 and my mind mixed it up with an AU idea where Sherlock's suicide in TRF was real instead of a faked death (yes, I'm _that_ dark). See if you can name both incarnations of Sherlock that I use! One's definitely more obscure than the other. **

**I said I'd label all slash chapters as such. Well, here's the warning: Very prominent slash, established relationship short.**

 **Oh, and look at that! I caught up! Thank Moftiss for that, as I've been listening to (and occasionally maximising my media player to watch) the BBC Sherlock series, especially _A Study in Pink_ and _The Abominable Bride._ I'm ready. Once more into the breach! (That was meant as the title for Chapter 6, but as it didn't contain an actual argument in the end, I decided to just leave it out.)**

 **EDIT: Retconned SH22C's eyes.**

 **Today's prompt: Eternal**

 **From: Winter Winks 221**

* * *

Sometimes, when Watson looked at Holmes, he saw a Sherlock who was not his. In dim lights, out of the corner of his eyes, just for a second, there was a different man, as though someone had, briefly, switched places with his detective. The silvery eyes became blue or green or brown or an iridescent pearly colour that changed tints whenever it felt like it. Although the black hair normally phased into different shades of dark, there was one image Watson would not soon forget – of a Holmes with dusky golden-brown hair that was long enough to curl at the nape, and dark eyes like sapphires encased in crystal.

Somehow he knew it was Holmes even in the middle of the night, when an unfamiliar face should have had him diving for his gun. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes always exuded that aura of both danger and safety, of adventure and abode all at once, no matter what face he wore.

About a year into their relationship, Watson figured out that the images he was seeing were reincarnations. There was nothing else they could be.

There was Holmes in the clothing of the early 19th century, green eyes shining like emeralds and his smug detective smile dancing familiarly on his lips. There was Holmes in the fatigues of an English soldier in a war Watson didn't recognise. There was Holmes in a dramatic black coat and a purple scarf, with the iridescent eyes and dark auburn curls that looked… fluffy.

* * *

Watson would remember almost none of this dream, though the shock and horror he felt upon seeing this Holmes was very vivid in his mind for years afterwards. He looked so young, with a ghostly flicker to his image. He was so pale, and so _young_ , his eyes bright and not yet tinted with his own Holmes's worldliness.

 _"John!" the young man cried, stumbling. "John, I'm sorry… I promised, I promised it wasn't real, but it was… Oh John, he was too smart for me." He took Watson's face in his hands – damn Sherlock for being so tall even as a youth – and murmured, "I'm sorry. I love you," and vanished into thin air_.

Watson woke up with a start and a cry on his lips, before realising that he'd been dreaming and murmuring a soft prayer for whichever incarnation that version had belonged to.

"Watson?" came the query from the doorway. "Watson? John? _John!_ " Holmes swept into the room, violin still in hand. "What's the matter?"

Watson looked up, and Holmes's face flickered with the ghost of that boy's face; that boy, dead before his time, leaving behind a grieving friend who was perhaps a grieving lover as well. So suddenly that he surprised even himself, Watson reached up and pulled Holmes into his arms, mindful of the precious violin.

Holmes only made a token sound of confused protest, laying down the instrument and nudging them both upright to reduce the awkwardness. His hands buried themselves in Watson's hair, and although he was never one for comforting words, Holmes knew his presence was enough.

Watson told him the whole story, about him seeing visions of Holmes's reincarnations.

The clear-water grey eyes took in everything he said, until at last Holmes said, "I see yours too." At the look on Watson's face, he elaborated, "It is as you described – I only ever see them for an instant, unless they are a dream. There are at least six different versions of you that I've seen." He smirked. "I must admit, my dear, you look absolutely _gorgeous_ as a blond."

"Ex _cuse_ me!"

"Although I quite like your hair as it is." Holmes ran his fingers down his lover's scalp, chuckling wickedly when Watson shivered. "I think there was one situation where I committed suicide – I had a dream last week of one of your incarnations begging me to not be dead."

Watson sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh my God," he breathed. "Suicide. My dream just now – the Holmes in my dream was so young, and he kept apologising because 'it' was real."

Holmes looked grim. "Was his hair dark and curly?" At the nod, he asked, "Were his eyes blue?" Again Watson nodded – it had been a blue-eyed version of the iridescent-eyed Holmes in his dreams tonight. "Then yes, I'm afraid that was the one in which I committed suicide." He pulled a face. "Why on earth I would do that, I have no idea."

Watson was silent for a moment, probably in honour of that incarnation's Holmes, before saying, "Out of all the Holmes incarnations, I think I like you the best."

This Holmes was a tall, whipcord lean man with an aquiline face, short black hair, and a tendency towards hyperactivity – he always had to be doing _something_ , whether it was physical or mental. Watson liked the sharp grey eyes most of all – like silver and mercury, luminous and sparkling. This Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, gave him a smile that showed how very pleased he was with that remark, and pressed a soft kiss to his temple.

"May I stay with you tonight, my dear?" It was clever, really, how in company Holmes would only need to add 'fellow' or 'man' for it to be a perfectly innocent address between friends, while Watson knew what he really meant by those words.

"Only be quiet," Watson warned. "The last time you asked I ended up having to stash you under the bed."

Holmes laughed, a breathy little chuckle that meant secrets and mischief. Returning the violin to its proper case, he came back to find Watson already in bed again, and curled around him with an affection that meant he was in both a good and a contented mood.

Watson thought of the young Holmes and his anguished confession. "I suppose that means we keep living on – or, at least, our love does. It feels nice to think that at whatever point in time there will always be a Sherlock Holmes and a John Watson." He nudged at Holmes a bit and gave him a quick kiss. "Now move over, you blanket thief. You thought you could get away with it, ha."

Holmes hummed in assent and moved. "Goodnight," he whispered, tucking the blanket around his lover. _I love you_ was more sensed than said, as if, after all these months, he was still afraid of it all, afraid of losing everything.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," Watson replied drowsily. _I love you too_ went unsaid but not unknown, because they were forever, as was their story, as was the story of Holmes and Watson. Their bond was eternal.


	9. Carolling - Sort Of

**Hey there! I had to post so late mostly because my internet connection decided it didn't want me to post today and went on the fritz till this afternoon, when I was out. Anyway, I quite liked this idea; I didn't put in the rest of the song because it really is rather long and I didn't want to be boring.**

 **Speaking of the song, apparently it was sung during Christmas season by the watchmen who patrolled near the homes of the gentry. I don't know if that's true, but it sounds cute. Just thought I'd pass it on.**

 **Today's prompt: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen**

 **From: Madam'zelleG (hello, I don't think we've met! hope you enjoy this)**

* * *

Since my fellow-lodger was Sherlock Holmes, hearing a violin at any time of the day was never new to me. Unfortunately, neither was hearing explosions of varying volumes at the most inopportune times, but the melody I now heard as I returned from my visit to a friend's house was much more pleasant than that.

At first I assumed it was Holmes – it was a violin near 221B and I had never heard a violin in or near 221B that was not Holmes – but I realised that the sound was coming from the street, not the flat. Holmes never played on the street, so it was logical to assume he would not suddenly start now. So it was a different player.

As I stepped down from the cab, I looked around for the skilled player for a few seconds before my eyes settled on a lithe, wiry young man with flaming red hair neatly swept off his face and an upturned hat at his feet, wearing an ordinary gentleman's day wear, with a rose in the buttonhole.

But I got the feeling I had seen him, somewhere, before.

Oh! It was young Wilde, the Irregular who had hit Holmes with a snowball earlier this month. He looked very different out of his rags with a violin under his chin; I wondered where he learned to play. The Irregulars were street urchins, after all, with limited access to such luxuries as violin lessons.

For that matter, where did he get the suit? I gazed at him carefully, noting that the sleeves and trousers were too short, though barely noticeably so. The violin, too, looked as if it had been borrowed from a smaller or younger boy; the proportion seemed off.

So he had borrowed the things. Where from?

Some of the other boys sat by him; something seemed off about one of them. _Look closer, Watson._ The dirt on his face! It was not as deeply ingrained as it should have been – one good dusting, a good wash, would have his face completely clean in a moment.

And his clothes were merely old and torn, not tattered as some of the boys' were. He wasn't a street boy, I realised, only a boy who ran with the Irregulars.

I smiled to myself with satisfaction. So Wilde was playing for coins on a street with a suit and violin borrowed from the only Irregular who had them.

The song had come to an end, however, and Wilde bent and talked to the boy beside him, who murmured instructions to the others. When Wilde played again, it was with the accompaniment of half a dozen boyish voices; most of them were still in their soprano phase, the boys being young, but the mousy-haired boy had a fine tenor and another had a good mid-tone.

 _God rest ye merry, gentlemen  
Let nothing you dismay  
Remember Christ our saviour  
Was born on Christmas Day  
To save us all from Satan's pow'r  
When we were gone astray_

 _Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy  
Oh, tidings of comfort and joy_

Their young faces shone with cheer and true Christmas spirit, and it touched me profoundly. To watch these boys, six of whom had no worldly possessions and one of whom had chosen to run with them because they were his friends, brighten the street as only children can do warmed my heart.

I was certainly surprised when the second verse began and a second violin joined Wilde's melody, complementing it perfectly and mingling with it like streaks of gold and silver. Deciding that there was no real harm, I joined in, boosting the six singers with my baritone:

 _In Bethlehem, in Israel,  
This blessed Babe was born  
And laid within a manger  
Upon this blessed morn  
The which His Mother Mary  
Did nothing take in scorn_

 _O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy  
O tidings of comfort and joy_

The door to 221 Baker Street was shouldered open, and there stood Holmes, playing his violin with a soft smile on his face. "Hello there, Watson," he said, over the song. "Happy holidays." I smiled in return, and was rewarded by the spark in his grey eyes. As I took my place beside him, shutting the door, it was like I had had a hot drink: a fuzzy feeling seared from my toes up to the crown of my head, warming me from the inside out.

It was not Christmas yet, but as we two and the seven boys sang our hearts out to the frost-covered Baker Street, I thought contentedly that it might as well be.


	10. Pale

**I know, I know, I'm running behind again. Well. But, look at that! A third through the month (if you don't count the 31st, which I don't in this instance), so I guess I can hang on for a little while longer.**

 **Wilde and Thorn didn't want to leave me alone, so this mangled thing came out - and this is after three tries. zanganito, I'm really sorry for what happened to your prompt. All of you, I'm sorry about the not-entirely-total lack of research I did, which is still poor. I'm tired, that's all.**

 **Today's prompt: Wax**

 **From: zanganito (again, I'm sorry, dear writer, for the butchering of your prompt)**

* * *

It was a surprise – to say the least – for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to open the door to Baker Street and find the tall, red-headed Irregular named Wilde practically wrapped around a smaller, mousy-haired boy on the stairs, both of them covered in melting snow with their scarves and hats – or, rather, what remained of them – askew.

"Wilde!" Holmes said sharply. "Hawthorne!"

Wilde threw back his head to glare, and Holmes recoiled. None of the Irregulars had ever been anything but ruggedly respectful to him, and for Wilde to openly defy him was staggering. But even the detective could not find it in him to take offence, for the boy's face was pale and twisted in terrible fear and anguish.

Watson recognised it immediately. After all, as a doctor, he had seen it many a time – at a deathbed. "Come now," said he; "what's the matter?"

Wilde tentatively unfurled to reveal Thorn's body, pale as wax and equally lifeless. Holmes knelt to examine him, revealing a freely-bleeding wound at the neck. The ginger had obviously tried to bind it up as tight as he could with the scarf without suffocating his friend, but it was still oozing blood.

"At least he is still bleeding," Watson observed, nudging his friend out of the way to peer at the ugly slash himself. "It means he's still alive. There is still hope. What of his brother?"

"Busy."

"And his parents?"

Wilde's face told him all he needed to know; he had not told Thorn's parents, for fear that their son would die because of the delay. Watson quickly and quietly set to work; Holmes had whisked upstairs to grab the bag, and the doctor came to the fore with brusque speed.

As an army doctor in Afghanistan, Watson had likely seen and healed worse wounds than this with poorer supplies. The artery had thankfully only been nicked, as had the windpipe; the biggest danger to young Thorn's life was loss of blood. If they could stop the bleeding, his chances of living would be higher.

Red stained both the doctor's and the detective's hands as they worked together to preserve a life; Wilde had curled up to the side, watching with eyes that seemed more like a tiger cub's than those of a full-grown beast.

Watson leaned back, examining his work. "That is all I can do for him at the moment."

Thorn's complexion was still waxy, but colour was slowly creeping up his neck and into his face. "Thank you," Wilde said simply, folding his friend back into himself and huddling against the wall. The two men prepared to ascend the stairs and try to clean up as much of the blood as they could before it stained too indelibly, when a breath formed a name. " _Phoenix._ "

Holmes looked up. Thorn had tucked his head under Wilde's chin; their builds being the way they were, it was no problem for him. The detective shook his head and headed upstairs after his fellow-lodger, calling to mind a memory of years ago, when Wilde first became an Irregular...

 _"Wiggins tells me you are indispensable to their raids." He assessed the boy before him, who honestly did not look much like the observant master of shadows Wiggins had described. His bright red hair made his unusually pale, if dirty, complexion look ill, and though his amber eyes were as sharp as Holmes had expected, their flashing fierceness reminded him a bit too much of a tiger for comfort._

 _"I am, sir."_

 _"Prove it, and I will hire you. Your name?"_

 _"Wilde, Mr. Holmes. Phoenix Wilde."_


	11. Mycroft's Best Friend

**Yeah, I know, I'm running behind again. And I'm being rather uncreative with my responses, mostly limiting them to the same case. I'm sorry, but there's only so much one can do in the face of exams-before-Christmas-(break). Well.**

 **And I've just read this _incredible_ reincarnation AU called 'Not Yet Dead'. Can't rec here because that would make this _very_ long, but I'll just say the twist is probably not going to be predictable unless you've watched the movie the idea is from. Basically, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of the 19th century, was murdered at the Reichenbach Falls on May 4, 1891, by Dr. John H. Watson. Only, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of the 21st century, is convinced Watson is innocent, and resolves, with the help of this century's John Watson** **, to prove it.**

 **Back to our regularly scheduled program!**

 **Today's prompt: Mycroft's best friend**

 **From: Book girl fan**

* * *

Sherlock's pipe billowed out a cloud of bluish smoke. "Are you starting or shall I, brother mine?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock Holmes dropped by the Diogenes Club every three weeks at exactly the same time on the same day of the week, as underneath the objectivity required by their respective professions the Holmes brothers cherished a quiet and intellectual but no less affectionate bond. They had however gone for a few visits without playing deduction. "The young man dawdling by the pillar."

"The boxer?"

"No, the clerk."

"Recently engaged, I should think," said Sherlock, crossing his legs comfortably and finally putting down the paper he had been flipping idly through for the past quarter of an hour.

"To a petite young lady too."

"Mends his own pens, badly, if I'm not mistaken."

"Been out in the country lately; visiting his parents on account of his impending nuptials, I presume."

"And his brother."

"Brother and sister, Sherlock. His brother and his sister."

"Recent haircut." Sherlock's tone had turned gently challenging now, as it always did at this stage of the game. Mycroft knew he was not really angry.

"Sloppy barber, then."

"I rather think he did it himself, to save the money."

"Ah, true." Mycroft could now see what Sherlock's angle had presented to him first: the slightly uneven cut that meant he had cut his hair himself, if carefully. Either way, the government official was not at top form at the moment, having been slaving away at a particularly difficult diplomatic matter the whole morning. "Certainly careless with his time and his belongings."

"Hm. Yes. Dear me, Mycroft, you're slipping." There was no real venom in the younger brother's voice as he turned to face the elder. "I think I had better return to Baker Street for the evening; you look about done in, and besides I am awaiting developments on the Cooper case."

Mycroft nodded distantly.

Sherlock stood up, clapped him on the shoulder, and gave him one of those manic, exciting smiles. "Wish me luck, for I hope to find an exhilarating conclusion waiting."

"I didn't take you for one to believe in luck, my boy." Mycroft turned to smirk at the younger brother he had once been disgusted by for his slowness compared to him, and who was now his only true confidant.

Said brother rolled his eyes. "It's the done thing, nowadays, brother dear; very fashionable." His eyes flashed a farewell as Sherlock whistled and shrugged on his coat. "You should try it sometime. _Au revoir_ , Mycroft!" He opened the door and sauntered out.

Mycroft smiled.


	12. For Whom the Church Bells Toll

**I'm really very slow, and I'm very sorry, but here's the next installment! Chapter 13 will be up shortly. This one's title is borrowed from the title of _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ by Ernest Hemingway. I know nothing of it besides the title, and quite honestly the title was actually inspired by the MLP episode _For Whom the Sweetie Bell Toils_. It's... don't judge. **

**Comments keep writers inspired! :)**

 **Today's prompt: Church bells**

 **From: W. Y. Traveller (seeing as you've done a few of mine, my dear, it seems only fair)**

* * *

The church bells for the early Christmas Day mass tolled distantly, their hollow metal ring echoing through the cobbled streets of London and reaching a certain John H. Watson, M.D., in his consulting-room in Kensington, rendering him thoughtful and pensive, his moustache quivering as he turned to look out of the window.

Why was I in my consulting-room on Christmas Day, instead of at home with my wife or at Baker Street with my friend?

Because, dear readers, it was the Christmas of 1891, the very Christmas after that extraordinary man, Sherlock Holmes, plunged over the Reichenbach Falls, taking Professor James Moriarty with him.

Mary had suggested I go organise my practice and that she might as well take advantage of it and go visit some of her friends before going to Christmas service. I had simply agreed.

I was not organising my paperwork, as Mary well knew.

The church bells called to the citizens of London again, and I felt the sombre sound chime in time with my soul; I knew I should be appreciating that the snow was perfect this winter, that my practice was busy, and that my wife and I were well, but every time I felt I had a chance of healing completely my grief would smack me upside the head as roughly as any thug's cudgel.

A sharp rap sounded on the door, but the sound had only just reached my ears before a young boy entered, closing it behind him.

He was a slender, lean boy, with the look of a baby deer about his soft young features; not overly tall, but not short either. He could be no more than eleven or twelve, but the grave expression he wore aged him a year or two. About him hung an energetic atmosphere, like that which Holmes always seemed to emit, and I inhaled sharply at the ache that made itself known right then.

"I do hope you forgive me for the intrusion, Dr. Watson," said the boy, his tenor voice striking me as something rather older than the body to which it belonged. "My name is Roland Hawthorne, and I am here because of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

"Good God, what?" I exclaimed, taking in his serious young face with its delicate, indeed almost aristocratic, features. "Whatever you could want from him, my boy, I'm afraid he is far beyond helping you now."

"It is not Mr. Holmes with whom I wish to speak," said Master Roland. "I assume, Doctor, that you remember my elder brother, Dr. George Hawthorne?"

I did remember meeting George Hawthorne; he was very young, barely twenty-six years old, with a gentle, scholarly manner that reassured and charmed, and a mind that absorbed anything given to it, so miraculous was its storage capacity. If our brains were attics, as Holmes had once stated, the mind of Dr. George Hawthorne was a warehouse. It never seemed to fill completely.

"I believe I do."

"Then I pray you, do not tell him that I came here," replied the boy. "I came because it is Christmas, Dr. Watson, and I find burdens are easier when shared."

"Why not share with your brother, then?" I asked, my heart growing heavy. My own elder brother, though our relationship had grown difficult over the latter years of his life as our paths diverged and his led him into the arms of drink, had been an influential figure in my upbringing.

"Because this is something of which he knows nothing." Master Roland perched on one of the patients' chairs. He tilted his head up and bared his throat, revealing a pink scar as long as my hand.

At first I was mystified about why a young boy would show an already-healed wound to me, but I remembered just where I had seen this boy before. "You are Thorn!"

Master Roland grinned. "Indeed."

He was the one who had lent Wilde the violin, and the clothes, years ago; he was also the one Wilde had protected like a raging young tiger barely two winters past. "However did you get your brother to let you become an Irregular?" I chuckled, leaning back and taking in the boy's mischievous grin and the boyish sparkle in his eyes.

"I didn't. I joined up, and then let him get used to the idea." Roland Thorn's smile was wiped off his face, and he took something out of his pocket. "Mr. Holmes has helped me more than you can know, Doctor, and since neither I nor any of us kids he saved were ever given the chance to thank him in his life, we will thank the person who helped him the most."

He put an envelope on the table and slid it toward me. It was rather large, and it bulged with its contents. Inscribed in a boy's handwriting were the words: "To Dr. Watson: As merry a Christmas as is possible."

"May I open it now?" I asked, reaching for my letter-opener.

"Go ahead."

I read the note first, written in the same boyish writing on the outside of the envelope. The heartfelt message read a little like a conversation – the Irregulars, I guessed, had dictated to Thorn (because his writing was likely the most legible) as he wrote, and since it was so clean I guessed that the letter I now held was a copy rather than an actual transcript.

I took out the drawings; one of them, as explained in the letter, was a facsimile of the photograph I had persuaded Holmes to have taken a few years ago. We had the funds, and I liked the idea of being able to look at a photograph of us in our prime when I was older.

The photograph had been taken in the 221B sitting room; I was sitting in my armchair with Holmes leaning on the back. I recalled that the photographer had disliked that pose, stating that he preferred to take Holmes in the chair with me alongside, but that Holmes had insisted. I now wondered why he did so. While my younger face was grave, Holmes's was lit by a smirk.

Young Davies's work was perfect; although it was obvious that it was merely a copy, it had remarkable detail for a boy's drawing.

There was another of just Holmes, and another of just me, and one last of both of us together, standing together in front of 221; we had obviously just alighted from a hansom cab, with his hand raised to adjust the brim of his hat. I was facing him, my hands doing some indeterminate thing long forgotten, but it captured our lives so very well.

I could have hugged all of them then and there, dirt and grime and God knew what else, for that gift. The original photograph was missing when I came back to Baker Street, and there were no others; I had once become distraught that I would almost certainly forget what he looked like, if I lived long enough.

Davies had captured that exact expression in his eyes, that distilled excitement and fierceness and incredible _genius_ that sparkled indomitably from the bottom of clear grey water.

I would never forget. The church bells rang out one more time: _For his memory_ _._

"Thank you." To this day I will never know how I said that without my voice breaking.

"We miss him too, Doctor," said Master Roland.


	13. The Swiss Boy

**This is a very strange little piece, because I was rereading _The Final Problem_ for the last fic and I got fixated on the young Swiss boy who was hired by Moriarty to lure Watson away from Holmes in his 'last' hours. Nowhere could I find a good enough description for the boy, so based on the Sherlock Holmes-verse OCs that I now possessed, I made up a headcanon for it!**

 **Hope you don't think it too crazy, ha!**

 **Today's prompt: Alleyways**

 **From: Wordwielder (I'm really sorry about what happened to that prompt)**

* * *

A wiry young urchin kicked angrily at the path-dirt by the Reichenbach Falls. His skin was very pale, and he wore the clothing of a Swiss boy. This was the young Swiss who had handed the now-grieved doctor the letter. He was now cursing very vehemently in Swedish as he kicked and kicked at the cliffs.

He was in fact not a very young boy, being no younger than fourteen though he was most likely not yet twenty-one. His pale, sharp face was framed by dusky blond locks and lit by blue eyes like glaciers and lapis lazuli wrapped in crystal.

Glaring one more time at the great, beautiful, and terrible waterfall, he sprang up once more and skipped back up to the town, searching out one of the small alleyways he considered his domain. It was a cramped, dingy, dirty affair, full of refuse and any odds and ends that might reasonably end up in a Swiss alleyway.

Flicking open his note-book and producing his pencil, the youth wrote thus, in English:

 _My heart's friend,_

 _I followed them all the way to Switzerland – oh, dear, don't look that way, Georgie, I know how to do it and do it well, nobody suspected – and to be sure, Professor M. was hot on their tracks. I managed to follow them to Meiringen, but so did M. - Forgive my scattered account of events; I am rather frazzled and will remain so for a time, I think._

 _Never mind, I will tell you the whole thing when I am back in England. However, here are the important bits:_

 _Georgie, you can imagine my surprise and horror when I was hired in Meiringen to perform several menial duties, was instructed to take a note, and took it to the Reichenbach only to find our Dr. Watson there. With Mr. Holmes, no less! I thought I might faint on the spot! The man without whom I would have neither honesty nor honour, and I had signed his death-warrant!_

 _They agreed that I would remain as his messenger and guide, and that they would meet at Rosenlaui when Dr. Watson had cared for the Englishwoman._

 _We had waited there some time when Mr. Holmes told me (in Swedish, of course, though I would not have been surprised had he figured out who I really was) to go back to the Englischer Hof, to find his friend, but I must have just missed our Dr. Watson, for he was not there._

 _And now Mr. Holmes is dead._

 _I feel so terrible, Georgiana, and that really is the least of it. You know how inept I am at expressing my feelings. How could I have done that? How could I have left him, when I knew when he could have seen (and very likely did see) Professor M.? I had a duty!_

 _You must tell Wiggins now; he'll tell all the others. Poor Doctor! Console him as you can; he was nigh heartbroken when I saw him last. I would have talked to him but for fear that he would recognise me and stab at the guilt that right then had almost driven me to suicide myself._

 _Send my condolences and my regards to the doctor; I will be here awhile yet. Let Nix Wilde send any missives for me that any of you might need – not you, darling, you are in enough danger._

 _Perhaps Thorn can drop by Dr. Watson's?_

 _In despair, but ever your own,_

 _MAXIMILIEN._

Now that we know his name, we will refer to him as such; Maximilien darted out of the alleyway and, writing the address on the little envelope, mailed it where he was sure would reach England and the others. Georgiana would read it to them, though he had addressed the letter to her. His initial mission had failed, though the job he was left was done.

But his dusky-gold head was bowed in shame and grief. It would be a very bitter homecoming for him and the doctor both.


	14. Yes or No

**Okay, I know, I know, I'm running _way_ behind, but I promise there are more on the way! The first draft of this chapter is not so much snippet-ish as this one and more heart-warming. Let me know if you want me to post it here too!**

 **Today's prompt: Charles Dickens**

 **From: Madam'zelleG**

 **And one cookie each to everyone who gets the references!**

* * *

"Manning, Tom Smith, what are you doing here?" Holmes demanded, upon emerging from his bedroom only to see two of his Irregulars in the sitting room being patched up by Thorn and Watson. (Tom Smith's nickname was added to his surname because there were two other Smiths in the band, Laughlin – or Locky – and Harry.)

All three Irregulars turned red as Holmes nipped closer to inspect the injuries. There was a cut across Tom's cheek, one under his chin, and several along his arm. Ozzy Manning was bruised in a way that meant a fall, and over his usual rags he wore a white smock that had seen better days, a rope belt, and a crown of leaves.

On the rug next to Tom lay a motley chain of little metal odds and ends found in rubbish bins all tied together with string.

"What on earth were you boys acting out?"

Watson hid his face in the slash on Tom's leg that he was treating, most likely to hide the amused expression creeping across it. "Guess it."

Holmes's knowledge of literature was almost entirely limited to whatever he deemed necessary for his work and whatever he saw fit to entertain himself with when he was between cases; that is, criminology and philosophy. The story that the Irregulars were trying to act out was likely not within his purview.

He flopped down on the couch and crossed one leg over the other, looking at the group over his tented hands. "No."

"No?"

"Obviously, if boys between the ages of ten and twenty all find this work worth reproducing on as much of a stage as they can find, it cannot be anything I prefer."

"Perhaps it can."

"I think not."

"I think you know it can."

"I do not."

"You do too." Watson challenged him with an expression that meant 'Secrets have been exposed'.

"I do not." The detective uncrossed his legs and bent forward, leaning down so that he was almost nose-to-nose with the brunet. They were all but breathing into each other's faces, a sort of half-intimacy touched with boyish playfulness the other boys could not help but appreciate.

"You do too." They were smiling now, daring one another to give in.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes.

"I do not." Holmes paused and turned to face the other occupants of the room. "Watson, I do believe we have an audience. Kindly treat the boys and send them on their way before continuing the argument."

The detective's doctor laughed at last, gesturing at the boys before telling them that yes, they were good, and yes, they might want to leave before Mrs. Hudson discovered what Tom's dirty chain had done to the carpet. "Really, Holmes, have you no appreciation for any Charles Dickens?"


	15. An Unexpected Audience

**Okay, admittedly, this was a bit... weird. I mean, the idea popped into my head instantly, but the execution was the part where I got stuck. Hopefully you enjoy this one, because I'm gonna be the first to say it: it's not that funny.**

 **Today's prompt:** **Sherlock Holmes plays the violin and someone besides Watson is impressed**

 **From: Ennui Enigma**

* * *

Holmes was alone, and he was bored.

Watson had gone out to run a few errands, and Baker Street was unusually quiet. Aside from the jingle-clack of the hansom cabs, the day was unusually quiet in general. In addition, there was nothing new to pore over, so Holmes's mind was free of distractions and completely blank, like the surface of a frozen-over lake.

It was abominable.

He considered the cocaine-bottle, but Watson might come home any minute, and he would invariably fuss about it. Besides, he was not quite _that_ desperate yet. Instead he reached for his violin and scraped away at it, settling on a particular piece of his own composition.

He loved music, and this was one of the reasons why. It was not like cocaine in that it simultaneously dulled and sharpened his mind; instead, music was a mental exercise of itself.

Technique and technicality were a large part of why he enjoyed it – he liked to hear the layers in the music, to dissect it mentally and confront each on its own ground, rather like a mechanic who liked to hear the parts working in a machine. But, using that analogy, he could only truly enjoy it if it was done well, if all the parts were in good condition and fit into each other properly. Otherwise it created a dissonance in his mind as well as the melody, rather like a language barrier creates a dissonance of understanding.

Music also told its own story, which was where the technique and the technicality came in. The telling of a tale is obstructed by a language barrier or by a bad storyteller, as Holmes's enjoyment of music was obstructed by an off-key instrument or a bad singer.

Losing himself to his music, Holmes closed his eyes and finished the song. _Ah. Something is wrong in that ending. I ought to change it._

He opened his eyes at an appreciative trill from the frost-shrouded window. Upon throwing the shutters up, he laughed. Sitting on the sill, shivering in the late-autumn cold, perched a little bird.


	16. What Dreams Are Made Of

**Have a 221B on me. I had to squeeze it a bit, but I did end up cranking this out. I don't know where this came from - no, well, actually I know exactly where this came from.**

 **Last night I had this really weird dream. I remember ducking out of a room just before an explosion blasted all the experiment beakers off the shelf. I remember because I had a tingle in my right ring finger where a glass shard from the explosion had lodged. In the latter part of the dream there was also someone saying, "A piece of frozen Gatorade?" and tossing it past me while I was looking at the wreckage of the pondwater experiments.**

 **Let's just say there's a reason this 221B is the way it is. I might edit it so it gives more information, isn't a 221B anymore, I dunno. Leave a comment with your vote!**

 **Today's prompt: Hamlet**

 **From: Winter Winks 221**

* * *

Being a medical man, and late of the army at that, I was still a light sleeper, and I cannot recall the number of times I was roused by the smallest noise, and alert before I realised where I was. The eccentric habits of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, however, apparently did not extend to ungodly hours; he was always asleep when I startled awake.

When I had settled in and my nerves had calmed somewhat, I awoke to a loud thump and a faint groan from downstairs.

In an instant I rushed down to find my flatmate, still dressed, lying prone on the floor and covering his eyes in something very like wretchedness, if it were not so humorous. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, Dr. Watson." He blinked and sat up, his hair sticking up every which way and his sharp, piercing eyes sleepy at the edges. "You'll forgive me for disturbing you. I have just had the most interesting and outlandish dream."

"Oh? What about?"

He shook his head. "Strangely enough, after that rude awakening, I cannot remember. Something about explosions… and frozen tea… and Hamlet?"

Being drowsy made us both more open than we would normally have been; I certainly was not prepared for this sudden ingenuous vulnerability. I found that talking of dreams, funny and terrifying, was cathartic to us both.


	17. Mistletoe

**Okay, so maybe I'm stretching it, and maybe I'm running a bit dry on the inspiration, but hey, I managed another 221B! I might change this later on, largely because I'm still unsatisfied with it, but enjoy this bit of fluff while you can.**

 **Today's prompt: Mistletoe**

 **From: SheWhoScrawls**

* * *

On a December night in 1894 whose delicious chill nipped at one's nose playfully, two boys, one pale with blond hair and one olive-skinned with auburn curls, sat together on a warm doorstep behind a lively, bright London household. While the blond could not have been younger than seventeen, the auburn looked no older than thirteen. Huddled close in the cold, the blond looked up and laughed, softly. "Look, mistletoe!"

"You can only get excited if there are berries on it," cried the auburn teasingly. His voice was high and clear and sweet as a flute.

"There are." With that the blond stood up, plucked one of the shining white berries from the sprig, and, offering it to his companion, pressed a covert kiss to his cheek.

"It _is_ funny, Maximilien," remarked the auburn presently, rolling the mistletoe berry between his fingers. "Either way I am in a great deal of trouble, aren't I? If I am a boy, this is criminality; if I am a girl, this is impropriety. I _do_ wish society would make up its mind on whether it wants Gregory or Georgiana."

"When you are a boy," said Maximilien quietly; "we are two of the Irregulars, and I like nothing better. When you are a girl, we run together, and there is nowhere I would rather be."

* * *

 **It's rare that I have an author's note at the end, but I think I'll explain the mistletoe bit: if you didn't know, the Victorian English had an addition to the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe. If there were berries on the branch, the gentleman had to pick one before kissing the lady on the cheek, and when the berries ran out, kissing was no longer permitted.**

 **In addition, if you remember Chapter 13 ('The Swiss Boy'), this chapter is in the same continuity. So I think you can guess who these two are now.**

 **Dear me, my notes are getting longer than my chapter!**

 **~Alex**


	18. Danger!

**Fine, yes, I've been scrimping on the contributions lately. These last few have been difficult for me, and I actually had to research a bit for this one (to say what about would spoil), and I tried my best. I apologize for the shortness and clunkiness, but I couldn't do any better at the time. Hopefully I'll get the time to retcon, preferably into something closer to comfort or to something better than this cobbled-together monstrosity.**

 **Today's prompt:** **Write a Sherlock Holmes horror story!**

 **From: Hades Lord of the Dead (I'm really sorry about what happened to the prompt, I can't write horror to save my life)**

* * *

The prickly, dank stone jostled and scritched my back as I huddled closer to my friend, whose hand stole into mine and whose eyes sparkled at me in the darkness, as if to warn me what might be lost if we made any mistake.

This case had been a sinister and difficult one; a string of mutilated bodies lying in blood in the very centre of their homes, maimed beyond recognition save for their wide, terror-stricken eyes. Holmes had been able to deduce less than usual about the habits or the appearance of the criminal, save that he was small and very strong, moved about a great deal, and some little more: he was right-handed, though moderately ambidextrous, and experienced in the art of crime.

The thin, severe-lined shoulder pressed against my back was evidence of the stress Holmes had subjected himself to; he had torn the crime scenes nearly to pieces in search of clues to follow, and kept himself energetic through a few snacks and a tremendous amount of tobacco.

"You really must eat when this is all over, Holmes," I whispered.

He laughed into my hair. "Ah, my dear Watson, if this finishes the way I wish it we may yet be able to treat ourselves to the theatre into the deal."

The alley seemed to flicker in and out of shadow, the lone lamp-post on the side-walk opposite, and the silence was, to my ears, filled with eerie chuckles and gibbers. Of all the places to hide and watch for the murderer, this was by far the worst. It stirred the dark, primal side of one's imagination to picture nightmares where cold reality stood, and a smirking face where only the shadow of a lantern played.

But wait –

There _was_ a face there! A stab of shock, of fear, of panic, pricked my heart to the quick, and the dreadfully white, grinning face was followed by the glint and _click_ of a gun.


	19. The Singular Wilde Chocolate Incident

**Yes, yes, I've been falling behind again. Amidst all the Christmas cheer projects and the humdrum of life have caught up to me once more, and snatched me by the throat. This is likely going to be my last batch of updates for a while, unless I get a sudden burst of inspiration randomly.**

 **Today's prompt: Chocolate-covered Watson**

 **From: Winter Winks 221**

* * *

Mr. Everett Wilde, of no relation to the infamous Mr. Oscar Wilde, had been introduced to us by the most unfortunate circumstance of one of his concoctions being used to poison wealthy young people all over London. There were not many victims, but enough for Holmes to trace the almost undetectable substance in the chocolate the victims had ingested back to the young chemist.

To our surprise, Wilde had nothing to do with the matter, although to Holmes's credit he had been able to deduce as such upon laying eyes on the man. He was not yet forty, his short dark hair unsullied by grey, and his hands spotted with small burns and stains from his work.

When he understood how he had been involved in the case, he volunteered himself in solving it. His close friend and working partner also joined in, though to Holmes's consternation.

Wilde's friend, young Lucas Carlton, was a slender, confident youth with thick black hair and eyebrows and an intelligent expression in his liquid eyes, contrasting sharply with Wilde's tall, sturdy build, which had the air of a lordly tiger of a gentleman. Rarely seen apart, their work was brilliant – I had no doubt that Holmes would delight in their expertise had we not been on a case. After all, they were colleagues to him, in a way.

It was just after a cold snap in December, four days since Holmes began the investigation and two since Wilde had joined it, when the distraught young man was shown up to 221B Baker Street. The feral light in his amber eyes sharpened somewhat upon explaining the problem. "My son is missing, Mr. Holmes. I think it's about this case."

"In that case, he shall soon be found, Mr. Wilde," Holmes said triumphantly, donning his coat and scarf. "Now, may I trouble you so far as to explain everything you know on the ride to your house?"

* * *

In the cab, Wilde described the boy, whose name was Lysander, and further added that he had been a foundling – found by Wilde himself in the days he had been a policeman in the North. That day there had been a fire alarm, but the team had reached it too late, and Wilde had discovered the little boy, barely out of infancy, half-frozen and near unconscious beside the corpse of another boy, just a few years older, and quite obviously the brother. Their only identification was the little boy's insistence that he was Lysander.

He had been injured too, though not as badly as his brother. "His eye had been burned somewhat, and if the eye itself was not badly damaged it was a miracle; he does have trouble seeing out of that eye sometimes. His hand was also permanently disfigured by the burn it suffered. The scars remain very obvious, even if he tries to disguise himself. And he's very good."

I emphasise this description of the boy's burn scars, as this was the most positive identification we would have of him.

* * *

I ducked through the empty, closed-up factory, my heart racing. The boy could die if we left him in a cold factory for the night with a poisoner at large and likely in the same building.

 _Yip!_

I jumped in fright, my revolver already in front of my face. Slipping backwards, I crashed into one of the vats they used to store the liquid chocolate, and as a wave of it splashed out it soaked me completely. Blinking at the sensation, I discovered that what had caused me such shock was merely a white-and-grey fox terrier and a little boy of about nine or ten.

His hair was dark auburn, almost black, though I suppose my imbalance had affected my judgement, as I would later conclude that he must have been very dirty indeed.

But the left side of his face, particularly the left eye, had suffered a severe burn in the past; the amber iris was partially milky, even as the pupil struggled to imitate its brother. I flicked a glance down at his hand – it did certainly seem malformed.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

I could barely formulate a reply, thanks to both my study of the boy and the chocolate running down my neck, when footsteps disturbed us. At the sound of the accident, Holmes, Carlton, and Wilde had come running.

"Lysander!" cried the two younger men simultaneously, as the boy leapt into their arms joyfully. Holmes rushed forward and helped me clean some of the chocolate off; really, though I had only had the treat once in my entire life and had liked it, it was quite another thing when a vat of the stuff was turning sticky on my face. I imagined my trousers would be quite an ordeal to walk home in, and were a picture to boot. "Are you alright?" my friend asked, wringing out his ruined handkerchief.

"Yes, aside from looking quite the sight and sticking to my clothes everywhere," I answered truthfully.

"Dear God, Mr. Holmes?!"

Everyone jumped at the incredulous exclamation from underneath the table Lysander had been using as a hiding place. A red-haired street boy whose face I knew well sprang out from the dark nook, and laughed. "Well, this is certainly some winter's tale!"

* * *

 **Please let me know what you think, and if you know who the red-haired boy is, shh, it's all going to be revealed... in time!**

 **~Alex**


	20. The Bitterness (of) Between

**I apologize in advance for what you're about to read. It's a terrible little piece and more than a bit threadbare, but I hope this patched-together trippy will do until I can weave some more into this. I'm focusing most of my energy on completing December, haha.**

 **Today's prompt:** **Desperate to see his deceased wife, Watson turns to the supernatural. Holmes tries to** **make him see sense. Does he succeed?**

 **From: Hades Lord of the Dead (again, I'm so sorry for what I've done to your poor prompt)**

* * *

It was a bitingly cold spell in wintertide, and Watson was going insane with discontent. Not long after the adventure he had dubbed 'The Empty House', he had returned to Baker Street with no attachments, having sold his practice and lost his wife. Although he was certainly happy to have his dearest friend within reach once more, the abrasive qualities of said friend were liable to bury it under irritation and exasperation and all the other nice emotions one feels when absence has made the heart grow fonder and presence inevitably shatters the fond remembrances.

Since his return, Holmes's behaviour had been strange – he was more accommodating and more willing to indulge requests, whether to pass the butter dish or for a certain piece on the violin. Not overly so, in fact, but enough to make the doctor anxious, for Holmes was only like this when he wanted something.

The comfort of Mary when he was grieving Holmes, juxtaposed with the strange, awkward comfort of Holmes when he was grieving Mary, began a sort of itch in the doctor's mind. That itch had already festered for a fortnight, and Watson decided that he might as well scratch.

After a few days' research, he felt ready to try.

The afternoon was frigid, but Watson did not think it would obstruct him much, and the sun was bright, at least. The streets would be slippery – he would rather walk. Walking would also ease his mind some before what he planned to do. Mary would have liked that.

He was nearly out the door when a mouse-coloured whirlwind smacked it shut in front of him. "I'm disappointed, Watson."

After longing for more Holmesian behaviour for the past fortnight, Watson found himself bitterly wondering why he had. Of all the times Holmes could have ended his strangely indulgent mood, why now? At times, Holmes was a strain upon one's nerves, and although he knew it unfair, Watson had lately found himself comparing his friend to his wife, and finding him wanting.

"I had thought you more rational than this kind of thing," the detective was saying.

"I might have been, three years ago," the doctor snapped. "I certainly am not now. If the supernatural means are what it takes, then I will go to what lengths I wish."

"Oh for God's sake!" cried Holmes. "You hardly resorted to that kind of thing when _I_ was dead!"

" _You_ are not Mary!" Watson retorted hotly.

He did not expect the angry detective, still holding the door closed, to flinch and withdraw as if he had been burnt. "You are right."

"Holmes, I did not mean –" He had not meant to imply that Holmes was less to him than Mary was – he had not meant to say that he had not been as desperate to see Holmes then as Mary now. All he had meant was that he had loved Mary differently.

But the detective had already gone, and when Watson lost his patience at last and started out to arrange something – a séance, a visit to a medium, he did not really care – no one stopped him.


	21. Irregular Behaviour

**Hello again, everyone. I'm well aware that I'm falling behind, but not too much so, I assure you. I've got several tucked away in here, but I'd like to publish them in sequence, so I'm holding them back.**

 **Today's prompt: Teapot**

 **From: Wordwielder (don't worry, the teapot comes into play later)**

* * *

It is not often that Holmes and I are visited by former clients, but not rare either. More frequently they simply send tokens or letters of gratitude, and that is if they have enough means to do so. At times he has solved a case and never heard anything from the client again. On occasion he has been known to retain contact with former clients, but I have seen him talk more to those who might be allies in the future in his fight for justice.

The particular night I am about to recount was one of my favourite times of year – it was midwinter, but not yet bitingly cold, or at least, not so when bundled up and talking to a dear friend on a stroll through one's favourite place in the world.

That 'evening' ramble had begun much earlier than was our wont, but Holmes seemed perfectly content, and I did not mind it very much. After a short lull in the conversation, he produced a short note and handed it to me. "An acquaintance of ours, I believe."

I took it. The address was not unfamiliar to me, but I could not lay my finger on why. The note itself ran:

 _Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,_

 _I have not yet been able to fully express my gratitude to you for finding Lysander, nor my delight upon finding so avid a fellow chemist who has a different profession. And I am aware that the content of the letter thus far is probably the norm for thank-you letters._

 _To be short, I'm worried about Lysander. About his brother's habits I know next to nothing, but Lyle is normally a talkative boy and now is next to silent. He also stays sequestered in his room for hours on end and will only come out on request, returning after whatever I want him to do has been done._

 _Carl has been by and has noticed Lyle slipping out of his rooms at odd hours of the night, but never consistently – no patterns, no specific timing, nothing to predict what he does._

 _And today particularly is what made me ask you. I would not have bothered either of you about such a small detail, except that his room should have been cleaned, but his desk has been untouched. Today at breakfast (after I coaxed him to come down), he asked me a sensitive question he should not have known anything about. Obviously, those two things combined have me very concerned indeed._

 _Dr. Watson, please see if you can somehow bring him down. It would be a great relief._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _J. EVERETT WILDE_.

That name was familiar to me. Wilde, the chemist, had assisted us some months ago regarding the chocolate poison case, which I had not found eventful enough to write up, though there was a kidnapping involved and I came out of the matter completely covered in chocolate.

I assumed 'Carl' was an abbreviated form of 'Carlton', as in Lucas Carlton, his colleague. I found it strange that Carlton, though a dear friend, would be so familiar with Wilde's son as to feel comfortable reporting the boy slipping out night after night. Speaking of Wilde's son, Wilde had not spoken of a brother on that last case, and his unfamiliarity with the boy's habits suggested that the boy had been recently adopted into the family. Biological brother of Lysander's then?

"Well, Watson? Wilde presents some points of interest in this letter, and it is not yet evening." Holmes glanced at me with an excited cast to his features. What could I do but say yes?

So we hailed a cab to the address, which for the sake of the residents' privacy (and perhaps their safety as well) I shall not relate. The house itself was not overly large, decorated tastefully and simply, and evidently kept clean. However, the effect of young children on the house was also apparent; the mess that was about the house was the quite sort two young boys would cause in high-spirited mischief, and there was a collection of pebbles by the stairs.

Likenesses of a young lady were scattered about – photographs and portraits alike. She was not very similar in face to Wilde, so I assumed she was his wife. The fact that she had not come up in conversation, besides the absence of a mistress's touch in the house, suggested that Wilde was a widower, probably before he moved into this house.

Evidently the master of the house had picked up on this scrutiny of his home, as after we had exchanged greetings he smiled self-deprecatingly. "Admittedly, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I am not a wealthy man. As long as I earn enough to sustain myself and my sons, I have enough. The boys are out at the moment, so feel free to examine their rooms."

Leading us upstairs to the hallway that lead to the bedrooms, he opened the first one. It was not a large room, but it fit a bed, a desk, and a trunk of what was presumably toys, plus a shelf full of books, a wardrobe, and some whittling project that had been laid out on the trunk. Lysander was obviously a very neat boy, with an eye for detail and a hand for projects.

As Holmes and I wandered the room in search of clues, Wilde waited by the door, not particularly anxious, though he was not placid either. Holmes looked up from where he was leaning over by the window. "How old is Lysander?"

"He is ten, as far as he, his brother, and I have been able to ascertain. You recall that he is a foundling."

"And his brother's name and age?"

"Phoenix Claudius Wilde, age fifteen. Why, Mr. Holmes, you look as though you've struck gold! What on earth have you found?"

Holmes leapt to the desk and began inspecting it. "Do you have a key for this drawer?" he inquired, pointing at the only lock on the piece of furniture. Having exhausted my powers at the window, I drifted over with interest.

"No; only Lysander has that key."

"And he is not here?"

"No. He and Nick went out a few hours ago and have not yet returned. Gellert, the dog, is with them."

"Hum!" He had evidently not brought his lock-picks. "Does Master Phoenix have a room of his own, or does he share this one?"

Wilde backed out of the doorway and made the short journey to the room opposite. "He used to. In the end he insisted on having his own." It was quite a bare room, with only a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe and no personal effects whatsoever. "He does not have much, though I intend to remedy that this Christmas."

I smiled at that, even as Holmes shoved us all out of the room and beyond the doorway, rushing downstairs, only to return with the tea set. I gave him a look, but he only smiled and placed it under the only window in the room that was not boarded up, then hiding himself and us in such a way as to be invisible from that window.

Ten minutes ticked by, and as a clock somewhere struck seven o'clock two hands appeared over the windowsill. Then a head of flaming hair, and young Lysander Wilde boosted himself up and into the room as deftly as a breeze, and very nearly as silently. Had we not been so quiet, we would not have heard him.

But as his shoulders and chest rose into view, his knee shot in and knocked over the teapot, which clearly surprised him.

The boy nearly fell over backwards, but hoisted himself in all the same. Hot on his heels swung the Irregular I knew as Wilde, dressed in his rags and much more silent and agile than the other, avoiding the tea set completely. _This_ was Phoenix Claudius Wilde, I realised, the elder brother!

Once the boys were safely inside the room, Wilde tried to poke his head inside, but Holmes shushed him quickly and motioned for him to look. A third boy was coming in through the window, a boy I could recognise almost instantly by the mousy head of hair, a boy who had been one of the chief visitors during the three years following Holmes's false death.

Roland Hawthorne swung himself into the room, and crashed straight into the poor teapot, which shattered loudly on the floor.

* * *

As soon as we allowed him downstairs, Lysander rushed for Gellert, the fox terrier who had shown such loyalty to his young master during his kidnapping. As the boy ruffled his dog affectionately and talked to it as one might speak to a baby, the elder Wildes began their story:

Alexander Wilde, James Everett's cousin, had a wife, Persephone, three children, by name Andromeda, Phoenix, and Lysander, and a well-paying job. He was set for life, until a sudden fire killed both the adult Wildes, driving the remaining members of that small family to three different paths: death, desperation, and delight.

Phoenix had been alone in his room when the fire began, and his shouts never met an answer. He was far too young to know that by the time he crawled through the heavy smoke clogging his doorway, his parents were most likely already dead and his sister on her way to being so.

As he caught up his little brother – the only member of his family he had been able to find and save – he removed a red-hot circle of metal, a coin perhaps, from the half-hysterical, half-delirious Lysander's hand. It would be disfigured forever, if Lysander lived long enough to heal it. The infant's eye was already damaged, and the boys' lungs were filling with smoke quickly.

Upon reaching a safe spot away from the fire, and seeing to both his own burns and his brother's as much as he could, Phoenix collapsed, only vaguely marking when he started to lose consciousness…

When he awoke, the fire was out, night had fallen, and Lysander was gone.

Naturally, the boy, only seven years old, panicked and began searching for his missing baby brother, but as he had been rather slow to learn to speak, he could not accurately convey his wishes in a way that would influence anyone to help him. His singed and ragged appearance did not help matters any, either.

Eventually, and involving some fighting, he was taken in by a gang of street boys who would become the Baker Street Irregulars. "And I'm very grateful, Mr. Everett, for your generosity," he finished; "but I regret none of what's happened. The past is the past, and I like my past."

Master Roland, who was seated beside Phoenix, added, "I knew neither of them before I saw a boy shivering next to a baker's shop to soak up the warmth. I gave him my coat on impulse, and he broke into my house to thank me." He laughed at my expression. "Yes, doctor, he did in fact jimmy my window to thank me in person."

"But Lysander's behaviour?" asked Wilde.

"Quite easily explained, Mr. Wilde," Holmes replied confidently. "He was rather bored during his free time, and Master Lysander has a rather more adventurous spirit and stranger friends than his peers. He came to me."

* * *

 **You decide! Did Lysander come to Holmes in disguise/under a different name, leaving Holmes to form the conclusions on his own and realize that his newest recruit is in fact Nick Wilde's brother? Or did Holmes leave it out intentionally in order to have a bit of a lark at his Irregulars' expense?**

 **Hope you enjoyed, and cheers to any of you with New Year's Resolutions!**


	22. Right or Left

**Okay, so I'm posting four today - the last one, this one, and the two ahead, because I'll most likely be busy this week and won't be able to update at all. I should finish December Prompts by about next week or the weekend after that.**

 **This chapter is also set after 'The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans'. Holmes's very nice tie-pin makes an appearance.** **The other slash chapter (8: Eternal) has more prominent slash than this, since all this has is a bit of intim** **acy and terming, but I'll still label this as slash. I repeat: Chapter has Johnlock in it. Established relationship.**

 **Today's prompt: Watson faces a tough decision. What is it and how does he come to an answer?**

 **From: Ennui Enigma**

* * *

"Why does it even matter?" Holmes groaned, sinking dramatically against the doorframe. "You dress every evening, John, why should it matter tonight of all nights?"

"Holmes." The detective did not mind the use of his last name; it was as much his name as 'Sherlock', and his lover was entitled to either of them, or both, if he so chose. "It is the conclusion of a brilliant case, and we are having dinner and going to the theatre. You cannot blame me for wanting to dress for the occasion. Now, I asked you: the black or the white?"

Already completely dressed, Holmes crossed his arms, the emerald tie-pin glimmering at his throat. The crispness of his outfit outlined the sharpness of his face and in his eyes. "Flattery will get you nearly anywhere, my dear, except with me."

Watson laughed, brandishing the neckwear at him mischievously. "It got me a _very_ long way with you, Holmes." He had not yet put on his coat, though his shirt and waistcoat were every bit as immaculate as his detective's.

"Enough already!" The taller man plucked both articles of clothing from Watson's hands, placed them behind his back, and was silent for a few minutes, before pronouncing, "Right or left?"

Not entirely sure what Holmes meant, Watson replied, "Left…?"

Holmes flicked out his left hand and tossed a black tie with startling accuracy into Watson's chest. Tossing the white one onto the bed, he gave one last warning glance before descending. "Be down in two minutes or I shall leave without you," he called over his shoulder with a smirk.

"You wouldn't dare, Sherlock Holmes!" Watson cried, getting only his partner's impish laughter in reply.


	23. The Sons of London's Slums

**Okay, part three of today's four-chapter upload! As previously stated, I'm making up for lost time (or what will be lost time) and posting now. OCs feature heavily, and there are several _very_ subtle references for the giver of my prompt! If you catch them, shh, don't tell anyone :)**

 **Set 1881 (when Watson first meets the Irregulars) to 1891 (in the continuity of Chapter 12: For Whom the Church Bells Toll), although the last sentence extends to 1894.**

 **I apologize in advance for any historical inaccuracies.**

 **Today's prompt: An Irregular Christmas**

 **From: Domina Temporis**

* * *

Christmas, for most of the Irregulars, was still a rather threadbare affair. Save for Thorn, the band was composed of the children of the slums and the lower working class, the line between which blurred more than a little bit. For them, Christmas morning was only brighter because of the many lights shining in the houses of London, and not because of any particular happiness on their part.

Although very few of the upper levels were willing to admit it, there was a dark side to London, behind the smoke and fog and snow.

It was made of bitterness and hatred and resentment souring the faith and resilience that carried its residents through. It was the dead taste that tainted even this finest of wines, the poison that made each day a burden rather than a gift, and a long life a curse instead of a blessing. It was the despair that battled the hope in every child's eyes. It was the east wind, harsh and cold and unmerciful, no matter what growth might be left behind it. The sons of London were great men; the sons of London's underworld were urchin boys.

In the evening, when the carollers were beginning to go 'round, the Irregulars gathered by 221B, to enjoy the warmth of their tattered coats and listen to Nick play Thorn's violin. If they felt up to the task, they would become carollers themselves. Locky Smith had a fine voice, and was the son of a choirmaster in one of the poorer parishes, where they sang the old-fashioned songs.

Ozzy Manning might have been able to sneak some sweets, being the smallest and the fastest (besides Sandy, who could just buy them anyhow) and with one of the sharpest noses. Hartfield, whose first name no one knew, might have dug up some pretty trinkets no one else wanted.

Then, when all the boys had given what they could, the Irregulars trooped through the city, keeping warm by running and playing and laughing. All of London was their home, whatever district, whatever road, especially on Christmas. Maybe they would have a lark at the expense of some rich papa's boy in Westminster, or pause to cheer up an urchin from Kensington.

When the evening grew quiet, they would return to Baker Street, where Mr. Holmes would no doubt have a kind word, at the very least, for them. At the start, he had been almost as poor as the rest of them, and had been a suit of clothes and suite of rooms away from the street.

"Good Christmas, boys?" he would ask, as they clustered around like eager puppies.

They would nod, of course, as they knew nothing else. Perhaps Harry Smith or Whittaker would pipe up, with a comment. But Mr. Holmes would always nod back and play a little game with them. Dr. Watson would come out then, to say 'Merry Christmas' and chat a bit.

* * *

The Christmas of 1891 was the first time since 1879 that their Christmases were not spent in this way.

When Westford had given them Maximilien Navarre's sombre news in May, not one of the boys wept, not even Thorn. Death and disease were familiar to even these children, and dying before one's time was not unknown. The band itself had been diminished one or two members since its founding, whether to murder or sickness or whatever else killed them.

But Dr. Watson, who had been kinder than most, needed something. After all, Mr. Holmes had been his friend.

Bane – Christopher Bane, in full – first came up with the idea. Wilde was charged with nicking the photograph. Thorn took care of the materials; he was not exactly rich, but he had access to much better things than the others, certainly. Davies was volunteered as artist.

Westford looked over Thorn's draft, and pointed out what he would have to erase. Thorn wrote out the letter.

The 24th of December arrived and the band huddled together in the measly shelter of their respective homes, be they rickety shacks or pallets in the slums or slushy alleys. It was a dismally snowy day, and though it would be picturesque in the end, God help the man who tried to walk in that weather.

Christmas morning dawned with the grim knowledge that there would be no greeting from the doctor and the detective that night; both had gone, in very different senses. Thorn delivered the missive, and had the good fortune of being able to carry back the doctor's good wishes to his fellows.

However, when twilight brightened with the gas-lamps and the house lights, the boys became carollers in earnest. Wilde played for all he was worth; his fingers would be red and sore by morning. Locky conducted, and Westford led, with his flute-like voice that carried a tune far. They sang for the sweetness (of past Christmases) and the bitterness (of future ones). They sang for a departed friend. They sang for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The Christmas of 1894 was the first time since 1891 that their Christmases were spent in this way again.


	24. The Name Is -

**The last of January 2's four-chapter upload, this was a relatively easy write, and I've had this on my laptop for days, but I didn't post it as I hadn't yet written 19, 20, 21, or 22 when I wrote this. An admittedly dingy attempt, to be sure, but it's a bit fluffy, I guess? And no, the blond is not Maximilien. In 1891, he was fourteen years old, making him two years old at the time of this short.**

 **Today's prompt: Holmes meets Wiggins for the first time**

 **From: W. Y. Traveller**

* * *

It was in the winter of 1879 that a thin young man of professional aspect trudged down a dirty, sludgy London street. His clothes, though well-kept, were rather old, and the sleeves were worn into an ash-coloured grey that spoke of frequent use. His grey eyes, though tired, flicked sharply over passers-by as his mind raced. He was weary – weary of boredom, weary of cocaine, weary of the smoke-filled room in which he now lived out his existence.

And somebody was trying to steal his purse into the deal.

This young man had very little to his name, and by Jove he would lose no more of it. He whirled, teeth bared, to defend himself, and found a little stick-thing with wide dark eyes staring up at him underneath a bedraggled rag that probably passed for its hat.

The little boy – at least, that is what the young man guessed it was – cried out in terror and bolted with remarkable speed, taking with him a boy with dingy blond hair and another boy with a bright red tangle-bush on his head that flew every which way. The young man, one long hand still on his purse, leapt to pursue them.

As he dashed, an idea formed in his mind. Slap-dash, only half-baked, and likely foolish considering his own desperate financial straits, it nonetheless stood out clearly in his mind.

He finally caught up with the little street Arabs three blocks later, and, for good measure, tackled him to the ground. Awkward, but effective. Although the boy's confederates descended on him at once with a ferocity common of the cornered animal.

"I mean you no harm!" cried the young man, struggling to rise under the blows of two boys and the (admittedly almost negligible) weight of the first.

"Gerroff me!" growled the little boy who was now pinned to the street by his collar.

"Cram it, Wig," said the redhead. "He's not lying." His speech was clipped and stilted, as though he was still learning how sentences ran. With a wave of nausea, the young man realised that he might have just learned how to talk – he was very young, no more than seven years old and likely younger.

"I…" he swallowed. "I have a job for you boys."

"Yeah?" said Wig, wriggling out of his grip. "What sort o' job? And who are you anyway?"

"A very easy job," replied the young man, standing up and brushing himself off. "One that involves simply using your senses and telling me what they find. You can find me at 37 Montague Street."

"We didn't get a name," demanded the blond boldly. The blond was much older, around nineteen or twenty. He had a hardened look about him, but the young man still saw kindness in his deep blue eyes.

The young man turned to go, but called back over his shoulder, "The name is Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
